


Play a New Game

by 2W_NikiAngel



Series: Birthday Fanfictions Project [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff and Angst, Gaming, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Beta Read, Soulmate Tattoos, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2W_NikiAngel/pseuds/2W_NikiAngel
Summary: When Bahorel was five years old and entered kindergarten, he noticed that some children had faint, white letters on various parts of their bodies. For some it was a word, for some an audio description, some had whole paragraphs of text. Bahorel looked all over his body and found no such sign. When they went swimming with the whole class in the summer, he noticed that he had it like some children. He didn't give up and asked his mother why. “Do you see this?” She pointed to her palm where the word Rose was written in black color. “That's the answer your father gave me when I asked him what flowers he liked best. And do you know what your father has in his right hand?” Bahorel thought for a moment and replied, “ Magnolia?” His mother's favorite flowers. She smiled at him, stroked his hair, and began to explain.Their world was built on a special division. Gone are the days when people were divided by gender, religion, skin color or social class. The world changed and decided to divide humanity into two casinos - dominant and submissive.[Český originální text/Czech original]
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables), mention of one-sided Enjolras/Grantaire, past - Bahorel/Original Female Character(s), past - Bahorel/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Birthday Fanfictions Project [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917910
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Play a New Game

**Author's Note:**

> The year 2020 is, I dare say, a really crazy ride for most of us. Although I tried to avoid the chaos around me and keep my typical, positive attitude, the year itself caught up with me at the beginning of the summer, and only now could I rest. Illness, family issues and much more that took my energy and desire to write.
> 
> But today I can finally say that the first Birthday Fanfiction Project is done and I hope you enjoy the results! Thank you all for your support!

“Eat dirt, you little shit!” Bahorel shouted with a wide smile as he watched as his character in the game began to brutally beat another. In a few seconds, the figure fell to the ground and vanished. “Victory!” He shouted enthusiastically, raising his hands and several celebratory shouts from the headphones on his ears. “I'm the best,” he said to himself, dancing happily on a chair several times. “Guys, I'm done for today, I have to be fresh for tomorrow. Don’t stay up all night, no sex today! All of you know I'm able to get you and put a fucking cactus into your asse if someone of you would be late tomorrow.” He just laughed at his teammates' answers, and after a few minutes said goodbye to his usual, “I hate you bastards.”

As Bahorel put the headphones on the table with a smile, a voice asked, “Are you done?” Bahorel turned to Grantaire, who was leaning against one side of the door and ate cornflakes with milk from a bowl. His eyebrows were up and he didn't look very happy. So Bahorel just nodded. “Mrs. Dubois was here.”

“Again?” Bahorel asked angrily, rolling his eyes. Mrs. Dubois was their neighbor, an eighty-year-old lady who almost didn’t hear a word, but was interested in every noise coming from their apartment. All it took was for one of them to play the music a little louder, and she was able to knock on their door to mute it. Occasionally, when one of them brought a girl or a boy into an apartment for one night stand, she pounded on the wall with a broomstick at night to indicate that she strongly disagreed with such behavior. Bahorel was able to tell her at any time what he thought of her, but Grantaire always tried to tame him. He always respected the elders and admitted that he always felt a little sorry to see no one visit her. They both knew that she had two children, but neither had ever visited her, and given that she didn’t have a single photograph of them in her apartment, they suspected that family relationships probably weren’t the best.

“She says you're too noisy,” he said with his full mouth.

“She must have gotten used to it over the years,” Bahorel said without a hint of regret, turning back to the monitor. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself, almost sticking his nose to the screen. “Fuck me.”

“You’re not my type, but if you buy me really good wine before that…” Grantaire expected Bahorel to tell him one of his sarcastic comments, but the older of them was still silent, and he leaned even closer to the computer and mumbled something to himself. “Show me,” the brunette said curiously as he set the bowl on the drawer next to the door and walked over to the table where Bahorel was sitting.

“Look,” Bahorel said, almost out of breath, and finally detached himself from the monitor.

“Did you really win 230 euros just because you spent two hours gaming?”

“It's not about that! Under it!” He shouted, almost offended. “Besides, it's not much, this was a small match with a not very good team. I wouldn't normally play it.”

“You're spoiled,” Grantaire said, puffing his cheeks a little. He never earned more than 100 euros for his paintings. And he was already celebrating, and instead of enjoying the money more, he paid off the small debt he had in his favorite bar. So that he can do a double there right away. “You mean this?” He pointed to the sentence below the yellow letters announcing how much he had won. “Did that make you so upset?”

“If you knew this place a little, you'd know how deep in the shits I’m now.”

“That's the normal state of you, right, and I don't need to dive into your weird obsession.”

“Pretty funny coming from you - How's Enjolras?”

Grantaire just stuck his tongue out at him and looked at the monitor again. “Okay, is that like bad news?”

“On the one hand - no,” Bahorel admitted, finally calming down a bit, running a finger over his lips, which were wonderfully dry. His throat went dry and his heart was still pounding. „ _ TheWorkClass _ . Stupid name. You'd say they're young guys who have nothing to do but play. But no! They’re almost grown men, maybe they’re in their thirties, some even have families. And their hallmark is that they have masks. Hide their faces, for anonymity. But I think they're as ugly as fuck.” He paused for a moment. “But they’re great. Two of them have gaming channels and I have to tell you that they know very well what they’re doing. No one has ever beaten them before.” He took a deep breath. “And their leader - where should I start? The guy is so mysterious, he even uses that stupid voice modifier while playing, so no one has heard his real voice yet and has the most mysterious mask. There are theories that he’s disfigured or burned, but I think he just wants to be interesting. Because - when he plays, not only does he concentrate on the game, he can also talk to the fans and answer their questions. And not just for the game, but for everything! He normally gives them such weird counseling. Last time there, he advised a girl that got pregnant at seventeen, who didn’t know if she has to have an abortion, because she was afraid that her boyfriend will leave her for it. First of all - man, who's asking a stranger online about that? Secondly, as soon as he finished, he started talking to her about it, he even called her via Skype and then offered to meet her if she needed help. Like, what is he trying to do? Look like some fucking saint?”

“Yikes, it stinks,” Grantaire said in disgust, covering his nose.

“What?” Bahorel asked, looking around the room. At times, in a fit of gaming fever, he could store food, drink, and garbage all around him for several days, and it happened that some foods seemed to run into the basket on their own — but now he saw nothing. Three days ago, his mother came to see him, who, even at his age of twenty-eight, looked at him as a child and even washed and ironed his clothes, cooked meals for at least four days and gave him a few euros to buy something decent. His bright yellow T-shirt with the black sentence  _ Suck me off _ didn't seem appealing to her.

“The way you’re jealous of him.”

“In no way!”

“You talked about him like I did when I talk about…” He paused. He frowned, then looked at Bahorel.

“About what?” Grantaire smiled mischievously. “I don't like the look,” Bahorel said, stiffening. “About fucking what? About art? About booze?”

“No,” Grantaire said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like when I'm talking about Enjolras.”

“I would never try to compare the two. Like, yeah, they both have that weird fluid in them that just attracts you. And I have to say, I like the way he plays. He has everything pretty thoughtful. And he leads his team well, he supports everyone when they make something, so he treats them really nice and I never really thought you could lead a team and be nice. I always thought - _No, Bahorel, you have to shout at them and show who the leader is!_ \- But he doesn't. He's just different and I can't say he's bad. In fact, it's nice how he takes care of everyone and sometimes forgets about himself, like last time, he even played with the flu, because he just promised them, and even though he wasn't completely in shape, they still gave the others a good load. And when it's his birthday, he always shoots an all-day stream, talks to people and collects money. Not for himself, but for some orphanage he supports from an early age. Because he's an orphan, if I remember correctly. And he really likes children. As a matter of fact, last time he took his friend's little daughter to his stream and played children's games together, and it was so cute— ” Bahorel put his hand over his mouth. What _the hell_ was he saying? Why was he talking about _TheFavoriteMate_ (but everyone called him _Favorite_ ) - like that? He was an enemy!

“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” Grantaire said, laughing.

“Not true.”

“Should I leave you two alone?”

“Shut up! It’s not like that.”

“Dude, I've known you for six years, I know very well how you behave when you want to put your dick inside some ass.”

“I just want to shove his head into the shredder.”

“That's serious.”

“Shut up!” As Bahorel shouted, there was the familiar banging on the wall by a broom. There were several cups on the wall that Bahorel had on display to remind himself that he was playing not only for fun, but also because it was his only, legal income. “And leave me alone, too, Dubois!” The lady slammed into the wall a few more times. Grantaire laughed, and Bahorel placed his head in his hands with a lament.

“Bahorel, come on,” Grantaire said after a moment as Bahorel began to cry in the palms of his hands and mumbling something about  _ this is why I don’t believe in karma! _ “It’ll be fine.” He stroked his thick, black-brown hair. That always reassured Bahorel. Although he was tall, wide, tattooed, he had a thick beard on his face and his hair was already long enough to touch his shoulders; and in fact he looked quite scary at times - he was actually just like a big, human cat. All he wanted was good food, someone who’ll scratch his hair and back, a good place by the window where the sun was steaming; and he was the happiest man under the sun. Grantaire was actually happy about that. After all the hardships with all the different roommates, Bahorel was the best. They had lived together in one apartment for three years, and in addition to occasional excesses with moldy food and utensils, clothes scattered throughout the apartment, sometimes too loud and detailed sounds from his room (most of which didn't even belong to him), he was a great roommate.

“It won't,” Bahorel growled, finally straightening back in his chair. “They’re really good. We’ll lose.”

“If you take it like this, you will. As a leader, you should always motivate them, right?”

“Aren't you spending too much time with Jehan now? You're starting to sound like him.”

“It's awful, isn't it?” Grantaire asked seriously.

“You'll start painting your nails.”

“But it suits him.”

“Don't say it out loud so that Enjolras can't hear you. He would be jealous.”

“You're really a jerk,” Grantaire said. He knew that as soon as he began to arm himself against him with Enjolras, he was at an end. He didn't know what to tell him. He knew that it would hurt Grantaire, because even though it seemed pretty clear to everyone, they somehow knew that Enjolras himself knew it too; they never had anything together. And depending on how Enjolras treated Grantaire, they probably wouldn't have in the near future. “Shall we go to the bar?”

“In two in the afternoon?” Grantaire shrugged. “Why not.”

Three beers, two shots of rum and two rounds of tequila - that didn't give Bahorel a better mood either. It seemed as if his nervousness and the aggression he was constantly suppressing were consuming alcohol as a driving force, and he was even more insane. Grantaire was smiling opposite him, his face and ears all red, and he was still smirking at the bartender, who looked like a model.

Bahorel finished another round and used his toothpick to catch the last of the burger from his teeth. “You're disgusting,” Grantaire said as he shot one of his disgusted glances at him. Bahorel always looked like a voracious animal when he ate, his mouth and hands dirty with sauce and always moaning happily. Nobody liked to go out with him to eat. Grantaire began to regret it as soon as Bahorel bit into the burger. Even so, it didn't seem to bring him as much pleasure as ever. “Better?”

“No,” Bahorel growled as he tossed the toothpick into an empty glass and waved at the bartender to bring him a new one. He smiled at him, looked at Grantaire, who was still not taking his eyes off him, and began to stir him another drink. “If you don't stop eye-fucking him, I’ll go home.”

“Then go, because I'm not going to stop,” Grantaire said seriously as the bartender leaned under the bar and the brunette leaned slightly to see his ass. He grunted in agreement and nodded. “Good material.”

“What would Enjolras say if he saw you like this.”

“That I should tame myself and stop thinking by my co— no, he said—  _ by what is causing my brain to not have blood _ .”

“Did he really say that?” Bahorel asked, raising an eyebrow.

Grantaire nodded. “Yeah. When we went to celebrate Courfeyrac's 22nd birthday, Bossuet and I set up a surprise party for him in a strip bar.”

“How come I wasn't there?”

“Because you were sitting home at the fucking game again.” Bahorel just grunted.

He had been playing online games for three years and he had understood how much money he could make there. In the beginning, it was fun, a way to easily come up with a few bucks that would allow him to afford a little better clothes, a little better drinks, and a little better food. But over time, the little one began to become more. The moment more than 600 euros landed on his account for playing at night, he began to think about how to earn more. He set up an account on a streaming site, started recording podcasts, and even participated in an advertisement for a starting French computer company, which went bankrupt after a year, but the feed was nice. Within a few months, he succeeded enough to form his own team. Even there, he had no ambitions from the beginning. He just wanted to spend time with people who had the same hobby. But after two months, the graphics card development company offered to play a tournament with their new graphics to promote them. Each of them nodded at the money, and when they won their first, unofficial tournament; they fell in love with it. Mainly Bahorel. He started to form the ultimate team of the best players. They started in small streaming unofficial tournaments, until they made it to the online championship itself. Now the company has decided that after ten years of launching their huge box office hit, they will make a real championship among the best teams. Only the best was selected from each country. They will then represent their country at the finals, which will take place in the winter in Tokyo. Bahorel had longed for nothing else since. When he got to the TOP5, he knew they had it almost in their pockets.

And then, suddenly, the  _ TheWorkClass  _ team appeared.

Bahorel gritted his teeth. As soon as he thought of their name and that - damn strange and attractive - captain, he wanted to break something. At that moment, the bartender approached him, placed a full glass in front of him, and Bahorel drank it immediately. “Another one,” he said immediately, ripping the glass back into his hand. The bartender rolled his eyes at him, but without a word he took a glass and went back to work.

“Dude, calm down, you'll scare him,” Grantaire said seriously. “And you scare me a little too. You have fully dilated pupils and nostrils. You look like a horse on drugs. Or viagra. Let me check it.” He leaned over Bahorel so he could see his crotch. “Um, then just on drugs, I guess.”

“Wait a minute and you'll see what it would look like in a slaughterhouse.”

“You're really awful today,” Grantaire said angrily, finishing his wine. “Does that game really bother you?”

“And why couldn't? Why can't I have something I really care about? You have Enjolras, art and booze. I have a game, burgers and money. Is it that complicated?”

“No, but you don't have to act like an asshole because of it.”

Only now did Bahorel realize how he had behaved all day. It wasn't just after he found out that the last tournament before the finals in Paris would have to fight the best team that just upset him; but he was nervous all day. Not just today, but the last month the tournament started. He was tougher than normal, everything bothered him, and even in one boxing training, the coach brought him out with the idea that he should return when he cooled his head a little. He beat up a boy there so that he couldn’t see on his right eye for another two weeks. He apologized to him, but he knew he didn't mean it at all. He even stopped attending the  _ Friends of ABC  _ meetings, because he still had nothing to say, and whenever Enjolras asked something, he just admitted that he wasn’t listening and returned to his cell phone. When was the last time he actually saw your friends? Three weeks ago? Or was it longer? When did he actually write to any of them?

“I'm an asshole,” Bahorel said at last as he apologetically looked at the bartender, who walked carefully over to them and handed him another glass. “Thanks,” he told him, trying to smile at him. The bartender returned the smile and returned to his work.

“And he won't smile at me,” Grantaire whimpered.

“If you stare at him like a piece of meat, he really won't want you.”

“It works for some people.”

“But obviously not on him.”

“And what works for you?” Came a voice behind them. They both turned. Behind them stood a rather handsome girl, who could have been a little over twenty. Despite the hot weather, she was wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt and long black pants. She held a colored cocktail in her hand, her hair dyed bright red, which matched her painted lips. She had several bracelets on her hands. She smiled and studied Bahorel's entire body. “Can I join you?”

“You don't seem to be thirsty.” Bahorel turned back to the bar. However, the girl wasn’t so easy to give up. She reached for Bahorel and pressed against his strong arm. She growled admiringly, and leaned a little more on him. “Can I help you with something?” He asked her, annoyed. He hoped she would understand that he wasn’t interested.

“First, I'd like to know your name.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and turned so he could look into her large neckline.

“I'm not interested,” he said rudely, pulling her hand away. He stood up, took a few euros from his pocket, and gave them to Grantaire. “Pay for me and do whatever you want with the rest.” He turned and left the bar.

Bahorel wiped his sweaty forehead and looked ahead. The punching bag already had several deepened holes in it, and the punches Bahorel had inflicted on him in the last two and a half hours didn't help much. He stretched his back, stretched his arms in front of him, behind him, checked the bandages around his fingers, and started boxing again.

Physical exertion helped him organize his thoughts. He found out in elementary school when three senior boys joined him and wanted to take his snacks. He knew it was enough for him to defend himself, but when he fought the biggest and strongest of them, something moved inside him. He couldn't stop his hands. While beating him on the ground, he dealt with his feelings when his parents told him he was getting a divorce. When his mother went to pick him up from the headmaster, he didn’t care about how much she wanted him to understand that  _ he disappointed her _ . At home, he admired the reddened fingers and enjoyed the feeling of the weight of his own emotions falling from his shoulders. He then went into fights unnaturally often. After reprimands, class reprimands, director's reprimands and a couple of behaviors sanctions; they finally fired Bahorel from the first high school. He didn't care about it until he saw his mother crying over a glass of wine at night. He wrapped his arms around her and said quietly,  _ “I'm sorry.” _ That was the moment he realized he had to discharge himself differently.

It didn't take long for him to find his first job as a fitness receptionist. He didn't like picking up the phones, taking orders, and welcoming people; but it was still better than being in school. Even though he started another high school, he hated it there as much as he had in school before. After a few months, a young man came to the center and offered them boxing lessons. A few days later, he opened his first class, and the moment Bahorel peeked into his class, he fell in love. He liked how a man with his own fists and kicks could relieve his body and thinking. He chose shifts so that he always managed to join the last hour after work. He went home relaxed and smiling. His mother welcomed his change.

Fortunately, after his worst puberty ended and he grew into a young man, his hormones were at least a little tamed. He started running a lot, exercising, strengthening and when he was in the mood, he got a girl, and after a while a boy, for one night stand. But boxing was still in the first place for him. When he joined the  _ Friends of the ABC _ and found out that Grantaire was attending illegal boxing matches, he started going there with him. The beloved sport became an adrenaline rush, which they didn’t do together most often, but it gave it the desired energy and satisfaction.

But when the tournament started, he was last in the gym three weeks ago. He tried to run at least every morning, but his heart was pounding not from exhaustion, but from the feeling that he should be home and check if he was still in the TOP. The muscles in his arms and legs were already itching from how much he had neglected them. When was the last time he had a good workout? When was the last time he checked how many calories he eated? When was the last time he had sex?

Bahorel turned and kicked the bag. He could have had it today. He knew that if he took the girl’s hand and got inside one of the toilet cabins, she wouldn’t protest. She offered herself to him, she wanted it, and she chose him. She was pretty, she had a nice voice and -  _ oh god, those breasts _ . Just as he liked it when a massive surprise awaited him after opening the man’s hatch, he liked big breasts. She wasn't his type, but he would definitely check her out on the street. So why did he refuse?

Bahorel slammed into the bag with more force than he intended. He made a small hole in it, from which sand began to pour. He stopped the bag with his hands to stop rocking and rested his sweaty forehead on the hard skin. He closed his eyes and growled. He knew very well why he didn't want to go with her. That's because of the  _ damn  _ tattoo she had on her neck. A word written in beautiful, neat, black letters -  _ Pet _ .

When Bahorel was five years old and entered kindergarten, he noticed that some children had faint, white letters on various parts of their bodies. For some it was a word, for some an audio description, some had whole paragraphs of text. Bahorel looked all over his body and found no such sign. When they went swimming with the whole class in the summer, he noticed that he had it like some children. He didn't give up and asked his mother why.  _ “Do you see this?” _ She pointed to her palm where the word  _ Rose  _ was written in black color.  _ “That's the answer your father gave me when I asked him what flowers he liked best. And do you know what your father has in his right hand?”  _ Bahorel thought for a moment and replied, “  _ Magnolia? _ ” His mother's favorite flowers. She smiled at him, stroked his hair, and began to explain.

Their world was built on a special division. Gone are the days when people were divided by gender, religion, skin color or social class. The world changed and decided to divide humanity into two casinos - _dominant_ and _submissive_. Dominant individuals were destined to become leaders, to view everyone as a collective, to create a strong society. They were mostly more aggressive, more assertive, noisy, loved physical exertion. Submissive individuals were here to understand, advise, protect individuals. They were quieter, mostly with an aesthetic sense, indulging in art and full of contradictions. They mostly loved order as much as freedom, and because of that they were mostly very emotional. Although they were opposites, they couldn’t live without themselves. They guaranteed each other confidence and understanding. Dominants and submissives were born in pairs - as twins, but from different families. They were born on the same day and at the same time. From the universe, they were destined to be partners. All babies were born the same, but some had bright, white letters on their bodies within six months. At that moment, the parents knew that a submissive had been born to them. The moment they found their dominant, the white letters on their bodies turned red. The dominants had it a little harder - their red tattoos didn’t appear until they met their submissive, and said words to confirm their bond. It wasn't until their bond was confirmed that the tattoos turned black. A permanent tattoo that couldn’t be washed away. However, it was no exception that the partners never met - the dominants died without tattoos and the submissives never had their tattoos colored. The worst thing that could happen was when one of his partners died. At that moment, the place began to burn and a scar formed on it, which could rot for several months.

It took him several more years to understand it all. He mainly accused his parents of not warning him how much pain something as stupid as a  _ soulmate tattoo  _ would bring him. When he was eleven, he fell in love for the first time. Her name was Michale, a girl a year older who liked to wear yellow and braid her hair in two braids. She always smiled and gave Bahorel strawberry candies. When Bahorel confessed to her after six months - he wrote his first, and only, love letter and plucked a few flowers in the garden - she rejected him. She told him, “ _ But you're not my partner. _ ” She showed him a belly with Latin words drawn on it. Bahorel didn't understand them. “ _ Then stop the nonsense and come play. _ ” Bahorel tore up the letter and tossed the flowers in the basket.

He fell in love with Annabela for the second time at the age of fourteen. She had light brown hair and bright green eyes. She laughed out loud and liked to climb the trees. Bahorel spent the whole summer with her. They were still together and liked to bathe in the lake far from their homes. He frowned when they kissed and she asked him what his favorite color was. It was clear to him that she was testing him. “ _ Doesn't matter? _ ” He asked her then. Annabele didn't answer him, got up and left. They never went out together again.

For the third and last time, he fell in love at the age of seventeen with Nicolas, a year younger boy. It was unexpected. Bahorel had no idea, and in fact had never thought, that he might like the boys. But when he first saw Nicolas crouching cutely over the computer, adjusting his glasses on his nose with his finger and still running his hand through his thick, red hair; he didn't take his eyes off him. They worked together in the gym and took turns in shifts. Because of him, however, he was able to stay at work for hours longer just to accompany him home. “ _ We're not doing anything wrong, are we? _ ” Nicolas asked at the time, all red from Bahorel's hungry kisses. Instead of answering, he kissed him again. They dated for a year and a half. No tattoos appeared on Bahorel's body, and Nicolas refused to show his. “ _ It's useless, _ ” he said. And Bahorel was glad to know someone who had the same view of his destiny. But when they first made love and Bahorel turned Nicolas on his stomach, he looked at his back and froze. He had a sentence on his shoulder blade -  _ I'll never love you _ . It was black. So Nicolas knew his dominant. “ _ Is something wrong _ ?” Nicolas asked cautiously. Unable to continue, Bahorel sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. Nicolas was stroking his hair at the time and telling him about his friend -  _ Marc  _ \- who was his dominant. Bahorel asked him then, “ _ Then why aren't you with him? _ ” Nicolas smiled sadly at him and replied, “ _ Did you see what I had on my back? He told me this after I said the words he has on his side. _ ” Bahorel knew he shouldn't have asked, but he couldn't resist, “ _ And what did you tell him? _ ”

“I love you,” Bahorel said aloud, slamming into the bag again. They broke up a moment later. Bahorel knew that even though Nicolas liked him, he would never love him. Not like his dominant. As someone who is destined for him from the universe itself. His mother told him how painful it was to get a tattoo and the dominant didn't know it yet. But it's worse when the tattoos come together and one of them rejects the other. Their connection is so painful that they either come together to relieve themselves and be able to live at least a little normally; or they kill themself. So Bahorel knew he was just a substitute. And every time a girl or a boy tried to flirt with him and he saw their neat tattoos, he turned them down. He resented being a substitute. That's why he preferred to choose dominants. Their bodies, which hadn’t been tarnished by strange words, attracted him more.

“Shit,” he growled as he shoved the bag, which swayed again. As he walked past the coach, whom he was unable to greet, he could only hear him cursing as Bahorel destroyed another of his expensive punching bags.

Grantaire wasn’t there when Bahorel arrived home. Since he didn't even write him a message, he assumed that he had tried to get inside the pants of the bartender, who was guaranteed to turn him down and finally went home with the girl who was offering herself. He took the leftovers from lunch in the refrigerator and sat down at the computer. He watched videos for a while, and responded to messages on social networks. When he had finished, he set the plate aside, put his headphones on, and turned on the game.

“Hello,” he greeted his team through the microphone at his mouth. “Sorry for calling so quickly, but I need to discuss tactics for tomorrow. Yeah. We have to beat the bastards.”

“Good luck, dude!” Grantaire shouted before slamming the door behind him and heading for a night shift to the nonstop _ Pierro Cafe _ on the corner of their street.

Bahorel stretched and looked around the room. Windows closed, blinds closed, curtains closed. Computer in the correct position, mouse with low sensitivity set, headphones connected, microphone working, camera set. Chair at the right height, a small pillow comfortably behind his back. A favorite necklace around his neck that brought him good luck. Clothes comfortable, loose. Glass with water and lemon on the right, fruit bowl on the left. Everything was ready.

He stretched out in his chair and moved closer to the computer. He turned on the camera and microphone. He loaded the streaming page and turned on uploading. “Hello folks,” he greeted with a smile all those who immediately joined the chat. It wasn't long before he was inundated with greetings and questions about how he is looking forward to today's last round before the Paris semifinals. “We’re really looking forward to it! And no, we're not nervous. But we’re really looking forward to it! We discussed the new tactics with the boys yesterday and I'll tell you,  _ TheWorkClass _ will have it pretty hard! Let's kick their ass!” Someone agreed with his statement, someone started writing something about him that he should weigh his opponents more and not insult them. However, Bahorel ignored any such messages and before he could start the match itself, he decided to play several shooting games.

After an hour and a half, he turned on the game and took a deep breath. “So, ladies and gentlemen, let's go. My dear team, can you hear me?” All the voices from his team began to permeate the headphones and the airwaves. There were six of them together. Bahorel met everyone online, but he saw everyone on a beer every month. It was all boys younger than him, one was even a high school student. “Guys, are you ready?” The final countdown appeared on the screen. There were five minutes left until the start of the game. With each passing second, Bahorel grew more nervous. He was looking forward to playing against the best team, it was exciting, but on the other hand he knew that beating them wouldn’t be easy.

10 seconds. “We have this in our pocket.”

5 seconds. “ _ TheWorkClass  _ will have to go to real work after this.”

1 second. “You’ll see the battle of the century!”

The game began. The two best teams in the Paris district met for the first time in the most important match. Bahorel kept his eyes on the numbers of the followers. 15,000, 28,000, 40,000. As the audience began to approach 65,000, the adrenaline in his veins began to rise. He knew that they had many more views on the stream recordings, and there would be 3 times as many people in the match itself; but it never happened to them being watched by so many people at one time. He saw some of his teammates make basic mistakes. They were as nervous and excited as he was. “Guys, we have nothing to fear. Don't let them see our tactics!”

Bahorel cared about inventing the fight. He watched their opponents' match records all evening. He found out what their weaknesses were. But there were just a few of them. They had to catch them in a corner, let them be confused, scare them and then attack. The matches usually lasted only an hour, but he knew that with the best, it could easily last until the morning hours.

Before they encountered the first player on the enemy team, Bahorel had his first glass of water in him, and a dent began to form on the carpet beneath his feet as he kept knocking his feet nervously. “He’s here!” He shouted, as if the others hadn’t seen the enemy appear before them. “ _Manila_ into him, _Froenzi_ from the side, the others from the defense, this one uses a dragon to fight!” Bahorel began to click the mouse furiously. “Guys, you have to be on the other side, or I won't get him. Fuck, how it’s possible he has so much power all alone!” Bahorel was beginning to wonder if they were fair at all. The character didn’t have as much power even with the best improvement. When a blue dragon appeared on the screen, spitting fire at them, he suddenly remembered something. He didn't remember anyone from _TheWorkClass_ fighting alone. They were pretty close. Even from the way they talked to each other, they seemed to have known each other for a long time. So how is it possible that someone fought there alone? “Shit!” Bahorel shouted when he realized that. “Back! Back! Fast! This is a trap!” How could he didn’t see it happening? It was such a primitive trap! No one should fall for this. “ _Manila_ , _Manila_ , get the hell out of there, or — fuck!” His teammate was dead. The dragon on the screen immediately moved to the next and bit his head without hesitation. His teammates started shouting all sorts of insults into the joint chat. Bahorel has never experienced such chaos. He and two survivors quickly fled to their secret base. “The hell no!” Several tigers stood in front of their base. They belonged to their leaders. “ _Favorite_ ,” Bahorel said through the teeth of the other team's captain's name as he selected the figure's best sword and began fighting the tigers. But the tigers ignored him, and it seemed as if they were protecting him. “What the fuck — No!” Without noticing, two more figures ran into the area, fought his teammates, and defeated them in no time. Bahorel was left alone. “You’ll pay for this!” He shouted and ran to his opponents. They began to run from him. When Bahorel finally caught up with them, he reached a small clearing with lake monsters. In the middle stood _Favorite_.

_ “Hello.” _ Bahorel jumped. This was a voice—  _ “This is Favorite. One of your teammates was so nice that he allowed me to join your chat.” _

“ _ Manila... _ !”  _ Manila  _ began to apologize. But Bahorel didn't want to hear it, so he turned him off. “Well, greetings to you too, I guess.”

_ “Did you like my tigers?” _

“Pretty shitty trained if they protected the enemy.”

_ “Well, they're just doing their job. I have you exactly where I wanted you.” _

Bahorel laughed. “Oh, that's what you had in mind!” Bahorel stretched out in his chair, brushed his fingers, and sipped his chilled water.

_ “The two best players in the Paris district, the captains of the two best teams, two completely different types of play. Doesn't that sound fun to you?” _

“More than you think,” Bahorel grinned, placing his hands back on the keyboard and mouse. “Are we here to talk or kill ourselves?”

_ “So eager - you must have unwrapped presents as a child before Christmas was there, I’m right?” _

“Shut up, Favorite, and come to me!”

_ “You're not exactly my type—”  _ Bahorel's heart pounded strangely at this remark,  _ “—but if you're offering yourself so sweetly, I'll probably take advantage. Shall we?” _

“I'm ready, you bastard,” Bahorel said excitedly, laughing. Face your biggest enemy? It was like a dream come true, which he had no idea he wanted to fulfill one day. Their characters ran against each other and fought. Bahorel has been playing this game for a long time to find all possible ways to upgrade the best of all characters, magical animals and weapons. He improved the character for years, got the best armor, the best weapons, and taught the most secret spells of black magic that only the best players could get to. This always guaranteed Bahorel victory. Everyone who knew at least a little bit of the game had respect for Bahorel.

But that wasn’t Favorite’s case. Although he looked harmless at first glance, and the player sounded more like a father bouncing off his twins' family birthday party for a few battles; was a real nut. He was agile, he turned all attacks against him, he didn’t let himself be injured once. He could still hear his laughter in the headphones.

“Got you!” Bahorel shouted triumphantly as he drove the figure to the great lake and it was impossible for him to avoid his attack. He drew his most powerful weapon and shot the character. “Yeah!” He shouted, throwing his hands in the air, turning in his chair and banging on the table a few times. “And you have it —  _ eh _ ?” His figure stood in front of him were a lump of stones.

There was a soft laugh from the headphones on the other side.  _ “Oh, did you really think I'd run into something so primitive?” _

Bahorel turned the character quickly, but it was too late. Several water birds landed on him, who took him in their claws and flew with him over Favorite. Six tigers gathered around him, holding his dead teammates in their teeth. “You’re kidding!” Bahorel shouted, trying to get out of the clutches of the animals. No chance.

“You're like a small child,” Favorit laughed.  _ “I was hoping for a longer fight.” _

“And I thought you were going to play fair, you bastard! This couldn't just be told! There will be some cheat in it!”

_ “I have no reason for that.” _

“Oh no, you have! Unlike me, you need the money when you’re just a kid from an orphanage.” Bahorel was always rude during the game. Not only for equipment (he had to buy a mouse twice this week), but also for players. He was able to swear at his own team in such a way that his own mother would cross in front of him and fear that Satan would possess him. He was bad at his opponents and could play their nerves. Bahorel enjoyed it. He was in his element. But now? He felt he had overshot. From the time he met Feuilly, he had respect for orphaned children - he stopped making fun of orphans and baby boxes (which was one of his favorite motives for his jokes until he was introduced to him).

The _Favorite_ , on the other hand, was silent. There was a strange silence in the chat for a while. Nobody wrote anything, nobody said anything, it seemed as if everything was quiet. _“Die you fucking motherfucker!”_ _Favorite_ shouted into the microphone, and within seconds he ended the game with a few spells and a sword that pierced Bahorel's figure through. They both knew it was useless. He did it just for show.

But Bahorel didn't see any of it. As soon as he heard the words  _ Favorite  _ said, he felt like he was stabbed and he moaned loudly in pain. He had to put his hands on a chair to keep himself seated, but it didn't work. The pain made him blind. After a while, he began to see colors that began to swing his world. He guessed from the pain in his knees that he probably fell off a chair. His hand touched the floor and he fainted before he could open his mouth and scream for help.

“… Ho… le… up… B…” Bahorel swallowed several times. He had a dry mouth. “Hore… Bahorel…  _ Bahorel _ !” Bahorel opened his eyes and immediately tried to sit up. As soon as he rose a little from the ground, his temples began to throb in pain. “Dude, lie down.” He felt Grantaire take him by the head and slowly put his head back on the sweater he had folded under him. “Can you hear me already?”

Bahorel just nodded. But he immediately whimpered in pain. “What happened?” Bahorel asked cautiously as he ran his hand over his throbbing sleep. His forehead was sweaty and his hair was damp with sweat.

“You tell me, man,” Grantaire said rudely, but Bahorel knew in that look that he was worried about him. “I was watching your fucking match and suddenly you decide to die there. You were drunk again and didn't eat anything?”

“W...Water,” Bahorel whispered. Grantaire disappeared from the room for a moment as soon as he returned, he had a glass of cold water in his hands. He supported Bahorel's chin and helped him get a drink. “It's better now,” he said as he lay back on his rolled-up sweater. “And stop grinding such crap, you sound like Joly.”

“You're better,” Grantaire said, smiling slightly. “Don't scare me like that anymore, man.”

“I didn't plan to,” he said truthfully, finally opening his eyes. He blinked a few times. “What about the match?”

“Well…”

“Help me.” Reluctantly, Grantaire helped Bahorel to his feet and sat him in a chair. Bahorel looked at the screen, which shone brightly:  _ TheWorkClass had won. _ Bahorel gritted his teeth, put his head in his hands, and grunted in displeasure. “Fuck me, fuck me! I put so much into it. And why?! Then to lose to some old grandfathers?!”

“Um, Bahorel?”

“What?!” he snapped.

Grantaire leaned over Bahorel to the screen, leaned his hands on the table, and pointed to the monitor, “Are you dominant?”

“You decide to seduce me now? Like, thanks for that, losing really sucks, but I've told you a hundred times already that I really don't want to shove my dick inside someone like you.”

“This will be a hit on Youtube tomorrow, I'm sure,” Grantaire said to himself, shaking his head. “I didn't mean the dominant as in bed, but  _ the dominant _ .”

Bahorel frowned, but as soon as he understood his words, he rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am. After all, I've told you several times,  _ submissive moron _ .”

“Did you feel any pain before you passed out?”

“Well, man, that was awful—”There was a good dose of drama in his voice. “—It was like someone stabbed me, shot me, tattooed me together. Really scary—” He picked up his shirt. “—Unit I -  _ what the fuck! _ ” They both looked at Bahorel's right hip. There were one sentence written in clear black lettering—

“ _ Die you fucking motherfucker _ ?” Grantaire couldn't help but smile. “Who would-” Grantaire stopped.

“Did you watch the whole stream?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear our opponents?”

“Yeah.”

“So I…”

“You’re  _ Favorite’s  _ dominant.”

Bahorel leaned quickly toward the computer and turned off the camera and headphones. The monitor went black, the computer stopped making raspy noises, nothing could be heard from the headphones. His heart was pounding. “Bahorel,” Grantaire whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. “According to the tattoo…”

“I know…”

A week later, in a small sunken pub next to Musain, where Bahorel hardly went, he stood in front of a mirror in the men's room, watching his reflection. He kept lifting his shirt. He couldn't get used to the look of the tattoo. When he accepted that he would never find his submissive, he had to appear at the worst moment. “Why did I lose the match? Because of you!” He cursed at the reflection of the tattoo in the mirror, grumbling unnaturally. “What?!” He leaned and screamed at the boy, who was standing at the sink, looking at him strangely. He blushed, muttered something, washed his hands quickly, and left. Bahorel took a deep breath, tucked his shirt behind his belt, and washed his hands. “Why is this happening to me…”

As he returned to his table, he noticed that two full glasses of colored cocktail were placed on it. “I've ordered one for you, if you don't mind,” his friend said, smiling fondly at him. Bahorel took his place, sipped a glass with a straw, grinned, and began to bite the fruit from the edges. “What's going on?” There was concern in his voice.

“It sucks,” he growled.

“That you haven't found him yet? Or— ” His friend wrapped his arms around his neck, pressed his chest to his shoulder, and whispered sensually in his ear, “—or that it wasn't me?”

“Don’t be so sure about yourself, René,” Bahorel tilted his head so Rene couldn't kiss him.

“You're awful,” René moaned, pursed his lips. “You'll have to make up for that.” He licked his lips and Bahorel rolled his eyes.

“Only in your dreams.”

René sighed and sat back down. “What are you so cold towards me? It was you who invited me here.”

“I was hoping…” He didn't finish. It was clear to René. They talked about what had happened on Bahorel's stream all week. A few minutes after he showed his colored fateful tattoo in front of the camera, several discussions took place on the Internet. Some wrote that they thought he did it just for the fame; some argued that he probably didn't pay much attention to the game and wrote to his partner while playing; the more attentive ones understood that it had happened after  _ Favorite  _ had said the fateful sentence that had painted on his skin. After two days, the internet was full of  _ Favorite  _ being Bahorel's submissive. Neither  _ TheWorkClass  _ nor  _ BadASSClub  _ \- Bahorel's team - commented on the situation. The fact that Bahorel and  _ Favorite  _ were missing from next streams and games, they decided not to comment on it. 

However, they weren’t the only ones who were curious. Even Bahorel wanted to know who his  _ submissive  _ was. And from the tattoo, it was clear he knew the boy. And he himself is already wearing  _ his _ tattoo. He knew it would be one of his friends. So all he needed to do was find him. And that was the problem. Bahorel was, as they say,  _ a social butterfly  _ \- he loved people, noise, crowds. He loved when something was happening around him, people talking, singing, arguing, fighting. He had friends everywhere. He was able to have fun with everyone and make friends after a while. Finding the right one was harder than it seemed at first glance. As expected, it was no one from his college and that actually made him happy, because he was glad he had nothing to do with any other annoying lawyer, one Marius was enough for him in his life. When he went around his colleagues in the box classes, he didn’t succeed there either. There were boys left, whom he met in bars, pubs, and running classes. René was already one of his last types. And from his white tattoo on his back, he understood that he was definitely not his  _ dominant _ .

“Look, this guy is still looking at you.” Bahorel winced. Ever since a tattoo stung his side, he couldn't think of anything but  _ finding his submissive _ . All he could think of was that  _ he was here somewhere _ and  _ he knew him and had to find him and be with him _ and — He shook his head. He hated it. Ever since his mother explained everything to him, it had become increasingly difficult for him to accept the reality of their world.

Bahorel looked where René was pointing. “Feuilly!” He shouted enthusiastically. The redhead jumped slightly at the shout of his name, but immediately laughed and waved nervously at both of them. He immediately began reading again from a thick, old book. “He's a friend of mine,” he told René, explaining when he noticed his suspicious gaze.

“Oh, I see,” René stood up and put on his black jacket. “I guess it's time for me to go.”

“Sorry, that I—”

“Please, since we've known each other, this has been the nicest thing you've ever done for me. Actually, whoever he ever did.” Bahorel pursed his lips. Although René liked to flirt and his sex life was more than adventurous, he was a romantic at heart. Although he tried to tell everyone how much he loved sex and casual meetings, he actually hoped that one day he would meet the right one and be a prime example of the right friend. “Although I'm a little sorry we didn't end up in the bathroom as usual,” he whispered sensually into his ear, which he didn't forget to lick.

“Stop it!” Bahorel shouted, blushing.

René playfully stuck his tongue out at him. “Never!” He waved at him and disappeared in a moment.

Bahorel sighed. Leaving the cocktails on the table, announcing the waitress that he would have another glass of tequila and moved to the table where Feuilly was sitting. As soon as his friend noticed him, he set the book on the table and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Is that how a buddy greets others in trouble?”

“I thought you had a date.” Feuilly looked at a table where no one was sitting. “Has he left already?”

“It didn’t go well today.”

“Jesus—” Feuilly jumped up, closed the book, and leaned closer to Bahorel. “—It’s not because of me, right? I didn't want to watch. I swear! Only-”

“Calm down,” Bahorel stopped him as the waitress brought him his ordered drink. “René is a good friend of mine.”

“Well, that's what it looked like,” Feuilly said with a smirk. “ _ More _ than a friend.”

Bahorel finished his glass and sighed. “Sometimes.”

“Oh,  _ sometimes _ ,” Feuilly laughed. “Do you have a lot of them?”

“Friends like him?” Feuilly nodded. “A couple,” Bahorel admitted, shrugging.

“Wow,” Feuilly said, drinking his wine.

“I don't go to school or work, I have a lot of free time and I'm in the apartment with Grantaire. You just have to guess I won't be completely innocent.”

“In truth, I never thought so.”

“At least I'm glad you can guess it.” They both paused for a moment. Feuilly thought he would start reading again, but Bahorel suddenly asked, “Can you really feel that way about me?” Feuilly raised an eyebrow to indicate that he didn't understand. “That I’m not interested in a relationships?”

“A little,” Feuilly said truthfully. “But Courfeyrac, for example, has it too. Or Combeferre - on the contrary, you feel from him that he is a boy who needs a lot of time before he opens up to someone. Not to mention dating someone.”

“It’ll be the glasses.”

Feuilly laughed. “Maybe.”

“Well, you or Jehan or Joly… No one knows how you guys have it.”

“We're like Pandora's lockers, you don't know what you're going to open.” Feuilly waited for Bahorel's typical, sarcastic remark, but frowned when he'd been silent for a good minute. Bahorel looked different. As if something was bothering him. “Is something wrong?” Bahorel looked at him, wanting to say  _ no _ , when Feuilly interrupted him, “You're not interested in relationships. Under normal circumstances. So, tell me.”

“You probably know what happened, don't you?”

“How did you lose one of the most important games in your life by the most primitive trap in game history? Yeah.”

“Grantaire didn't offend me like that either.”

“What a tribute.”

“But you know - what happened next, right?”

Feuilly was silent for a moment. He finished his glass and then just nodded. “Yeah.”

“Goddammit. I fainted like a whale on drugs.”

“Don't be so cruel to yourself. You were at most like a sea lion in heat.”

“Awesome,” Bahorel grunted and placed his forehead on the table. “I'm trying to find the bastard. And nothing.”

“You mean  _ Fav  _ — the guy you lost against?”

“Yeah. Would you believe it's my submissive? That's because I bullied children at school as a kid. Karma is free. Fucking destiny.”

“Come on,” Feuilly said in his typical, fatherly voice. He reached for Bahorel. “It’ll be okay soon.” As soon as his palm touched Bahorel's hair, he winced. Not because he wasn't used to those touches or didn't like it. But as soon as his warm fingers touched his thick hair, an electric shock shot through his body. The tattoo began to burn and itch. His whole body was suddenly immersed in his own sweat. His knees began to shake. The pleasant smell of wood, jasmine and orange hitted him in the nose. Feuilly's cologne. How did he smell it so strong now? A few saliva poured into his mouth and he had trouble swallowing them all. His ears began to burn. He quickly grabbed Feuilly with his hand and pulled him away. He straightened up so he could look him in the face. His vision was a little blurred, as if he were looking at Feuilly through the fog. Even so, he saw his smile and soft pink face. From what? From the wine he just drank? “I'm sure you'll find him,” he said before getting up, hiding the book in his backpack and placing a few euros on the table. “I need to go, so tomorrow at the meeting, right?”

It wasn't until Feuilly was gone that Bahorel could breathe again.

After what happened in the pub, Bahorel needed to sort out his thoughts. He wandered through the parks, the streets. He let himself be guided by his feet, who had no idea where to go. He kept thinking in his head that he had to find his submissive, but he couldn't forget the intense pressure that engulfed him when Feuilly touched him.

He didn't get home until eleven o'clock at night. From Grantaire's room he heard quietly playing classical music and some brushstrokes. Those were the moments when his friend didn't want to be disturbed. Bahorel went to his room and wanted to lie down when he noticed an envelope with his name on his desk. He walked over to the table, opened the envelope, and— “Are you fucking kidding me?” He asked himself, in an almost disbelieving voice. He put the envelope back on the table and lay down on the bed. “Fucker…” he whispered before falling asleep.

On the table lay a ticket to the finals of the Paris game teams with the message:  _ “I hope to see you there. - Favorite.” _

“I'm not going there! I’ll not make the ego of such an asshole happy!” This statement, which Bahorel uttered the day after, at the meeting of their group of  _ Friends of the ABC _ , didn’t meet with the enthusiasm he expected. Even Courfeyrac, who was otherwise for all possible violations of the rules, and Enjolras, who himself wasn’t affected by the foundations on which their world was built; disagreed. After an hour everyone told him he should get up and go to the tournament to finally meet him; he left. He had a headache from all their words. He called René, met him at the bar where they met, and after six drinks of sweet, red drink, they went to René's apartment, where they slept together.

Although sex was always just a physical activity for Bahorel, thanks to which he relaxed and finally could organize his thoughts; it didn't work anymore. He still had to think about what had happened, why it had happened, about having to find him, even about Feuilly and his electrical touch, which he still felt in his hair. When he went to the balcony after all to smoke, René, still naked, pressed himself against his back and said seriously, “You should go to the tournament.”

And so, although reluctant and after several conversations in front of the mirror, he stood in front of the door of the great hall where the tournament was to take place. He did everything so that no one would recognize him. He combed his hair into a bun he hid under his peak, wore black glasses on his nose, and borrowed clothes from Jehan, so he exchanged his  _ bad boy biker style _ to  _ grandmother, who buys clothes in chisels _ . No one would know him in a batik T-shirt with pompoms and short, purple shorts that were too tight. He also had sandals on his feet that he otherwise hated so much.

It was a little crowded in the hall. Some sat on seats, others stood. The air was already a little exhaled, even though the air conditioning was on. Three single cubicles were set up on the main stage, each with six comfortable armchairs, a U-shaped table, and monitors with a mouse and keyboard. Each cubicle was separated by thick, opaque glass; and illuminated by a different color. Each had the name of a different team - in yellow  _ Magnamus _ , in blue  _ SuperTeamXCS  _ and in red  _ TheWorkClass _ . There were several monitors on the corner of the stage, thanks to which the fans could see the progress of the game.

Bahorel stood at the very end of the hall, as far away from the podium as possible. He stepped onto one of the steps to get a better look, but he still didn't get much attention. Fortunately, no one noticed him.

After half an hour of Bahorel going through one of the internal fights and quarrels about him leaving, all the lights went out, rhythmic music came from the speakers, and a tastefully dressed man with a microphone in his hand entered the stage. “So, are you ready to get it today?” Bahorel grunted in disgust and leaned his back against the hall wall. He hated these recorded speeches and fake smiles. He didn't notice the moderator's voice and constantly mesmerized the stage.

When the moderator introduced the first two teams, it was time to introduce the last one. “It's clear to me that you're waiting for these guys with the highest expectations. And I won't delay it anymore. So here you have them.  _ TheWorkClass _ !” The hall began to shake with cheer and mass applause. Six men in black, comfortable clothing appeared on stage. Everyone had masks on their faces, but everyone could still see them smiling. They waved to everyone in the hall.

One of the team - Bahorel couldn't remember what he was called, but he was the tallest of them and already starting to bald - took a microphone from the moderator and said, “Thanks for this support, you're amazing. I'm going to speak for our captain today—” He pointed at  _ Favorite _ , who waved at everyone. “—Who doesn't want to talk without his modifier, because he's sure someone here would know him, so you'd lose your surprise. Whoever is watching us, you already know what I'm going to say here, but for the others - if we win and get to the finals, today, on this stage, we will be the first to show you our faces!” Everyone started screaming and clapping again. Everyone from the team thanked quietly, only  _ Favorite  _ kept his eyes on the audience. After some seconds, he found Bahorel. He had no idea how he had done among all the people, but when their eyes met, Bahorel didn't care. He completely immersed himself in his beautiful, dark, chocolate eyes. Wait -  _ chocolate _ ? Bahorel's inner voice shouted at him that something so absurd only existed in girl novels, but when he felt the warmth that engulfed him and filled his chest and shaked his knees; he silenced his thoughts with the sound of his heartbeat.

_ Favorite _ suddenly opened his mouth. He didn't have a microphone with them, so nothing could be heard, but Bahorel could tell from a distance that he had said to him -  _ Breathe _ . And Bahorel really took a breath. During their long gaze, he forgot the basic human need - to breathe. He coughed when his oxygen flooded his lungs again. His throat was dry. How long had he been watching him breathlessly? It was so embarrassing!

When he finally recovered from being completely disarmed by the gaze of a man he had hated with his whole being a few seconds ago, the players were already sitting at their tables. There were two minutes left until the start of the game. As soon as the gong sounded, their monitors turned on and the main screens began to broadcast the progress of the game, everyone quietly watching what would happen. After a few minutes, the first shouts of fans were heard, who tried to support their favorite team as much as possible.

Bahorel lived for every second of it. But it was not because of the game or the tension that prevailed in the hall; but because of his tattoo. Itching, burning. He felt like it was whispering to him to run to the podium and simply take  _ Favorite _ . Have him take off his mask, unbutton his clothes and find his tattoo, which he would like to kiss. Bahorel tried not to perceive the -  _ animal, natural _ \- desire that forced him to take his  _ submissive  _ and finally fulfill their connection. But it didn't work. He was so close. He's been looking for him all week. And even that seemed like an eternity. And now he could have it, all he had to do was take a few steps, push a few people away and jump onto the podium. Everyone would understand, everyone could see what happened during their game.

Bahorel didn't notice the whole course of the game. To the very end, he noticed that the last player left in the blue team was against three of  _ TheWorkClass _ . As soon as they started chasing the last player in the game, Bahorel recognized that they had used the same tactics as his team. They never did that. Each of their games was unique, they never repeated anything. They knew how risky it was to lose. So why did they play the same tactics as before? Bahorel knew that very well. It was for him. It was  _ Favorite’s  _ message. He had to persuade them to play the same thing, just to show Bahorel that he took their connection seriously. That what happened needs to be discussed, relieved, and _ lived again _ .  _ Favorite  _ knew he was here. He tapped his feet nervously, licked his lips, his eyes still running into the fans. Even though he was still the best in the game. Bahorel didn't understand why, but he felt a strange pride. As if he admires the world,  _ this is the best player of this game and he's my submissive. _

This thought terrified Bahorel. He had finally decided to leave when someone shouted - “Damn, no!” - and it was over.  _ TheWorkClass  _ won. The fans screamed like crazy. The boys threw their hands over their heads, fell into their arms, and they all wrapped their arms around Favorite's neck. He tilted his head, and Bahorel was sure he could hear his gentle laugh. It forced him to stay. Not only because of how beautiful and resonant he sounded, but also because he seemed familiar to him.

When the hall calmed down a bit, the boys got up from their tables and shook hands with their opponents, stepped together with the moderator to the edge of the stage and bowed. “So this was a real ride! Guys, you were great - sorry,  _ you are  _ great. So I think you'll hear a lot of congratulations during the day, so I wouldn't want to linger, because now we're probably waiting for the main thing, aren't we?” Everyone started nodding. “You must keep your word, so will the masks go down? I ask again - will the masks go down?!” Shouted the moderator among the spectators and the whole hall roared. “Guys, it's clear what the people want - masks down!” The players looked at each other, smiled, and slowly removed their masks. Behind them hid middle-aged men, but they all had hairless faces, beautiful features, tired eyes, and beautiful hair. They certainly didn't look like someone who should belong to the lower, working class they kept talking about. “ _ Favorite _ decided to make it exciting for us,” the moderator laughed, and everyone watched as one of his teammates fell around Favorite's shoulders and began to laugh at something. They could tell from the movement of their mouths that they had a quiet dialogue together that made other teammates laugh.

The tallest of them requested a microphone with his hand, and the moderator gave it to him without hesitation. “ _ Favorite _ asked us for something. It would be rude not to introduce myself, so I'll start. Hi, I'm  _ Hunter325 _ , but otherwise people know me as David and make a living as a butcher.” He handed the microphone to a man with angular black hair, who continued, “I'm  _ DementorXD _ , real name Didier, and I'm a storekeeper.” He handed the microphone to the next in line. “I'm  _ MetriuSPA _ , but my mother decided to give me the most embarrassing name in the world -  _ Jean  _ \- who the fuck isn't called Jean in France?” Many fans laughed. “—Soever Jean and I make a living as a florist. And it's a perfectly legitimate job for guys too! If you don't think so, I'll take care of it outside!” He handed the microphone to the penultimate player, who was still hanging from Favorite. “I'm Alexander and I'm a chef, but otherwise you might have known me as  _ AmadeusGrin3 _ . And now you,  _ Captain _ ,” he said as he handed the microphone to  _ Favorite  _ and finally released it.

_ Favorite _ moved a little closer to the edge of the stage. He put the microphone to his mouth and said quietly, “I guess you've all seen what happened then in the fight between us and  _ BadAssClub _ .” Bahorel's ears began to ring. His voice sounded - soft, beautiful, as if stroking his whole body - but he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd heard him before. Maybe because he'd heard him talk so many times through the modifier, and he'd imagined a few times how he sounds in reality? “So you know that today was a little more important to me. Because…” He paused. He glanced at Bahorel and smiled at him. “There's the captain of their team—” All the fans looked in his direction, some gasping for breath, others whispering, and some pulling cell phones out of their pockets as they sensed a sensation that would have to be filmed. “—And my  _ dominant _ .” He said the word so euphorically that Bahorel felt as if he would kneel before him and begin to beg him to leave together. But shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't the submissives live for their dominants? Why did he have such power over him? “And I'd like to finally introduce myself to you. People know me here as  _ ThePeoplesFavorite _ , but it was mainly  _ Favorite  _ that caught on. I'm happy for that, because I've found an infinite number of people who love me so much and I can talk to me about everything. But I hope to be mainly your favorite. My name—” With his hand, which was not held by the microphone, he untied the lace he had tied to his neck, and his mask slid down his cheek to his chest, where it hung on thin strings. “—is Feuilly. Your  _ submissive _ .”

Bahorel couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth, but no oxygen arrived. He tried to breathe through his nose, but it didn't work. His lungs were burning, his legs and hands were shaking. He began to nod confusedly from side to side until his glasses fell to the ground. He took off his cap with his hand and ran his fingers through his hair. They were all sweaty. “You’re kidding me, right,” he whispered to himself, finally looking Feuilly in the face. It was twisted with nervousness and pain. What though? Because he lied to him the whole time? Didn't he tell him anything? “Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” he shouted. Everyone in the hall fell silent. Some looked at Bahorel, some at Feuilly, some preferring somewhere on the ground. There was tension in the air. “All the time... all the  _ fucking  _ time!”

“Bahor—”

“Don't fucking start, don't even try!” He bounced off the wall, ready to get on stage and punch Feuilly. A moment ago he wanted to kiss his  _ submissive  _ hungrily and touch his body, but now he wanted to punch him hard and beat the explanation out of him. “We've known each other for five years, you never found the time to tell me that?!” Bahorel didn't wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and quickly disappeared from the hall. Everyone dodged him, afraid of him.

“Bahorel… Bahorel, wait!” Feuilly shouted unhappily, and when he saw that the younger had disobeyed him, he hurried off the stage and followed him. As he closed the door, it began to hum again in the hall. Everyone talked about what they had just seen, and the moderator and his best friend Denis, meanwhile, tried to calm the situation. “Wait!” He shouted again when he finally saw Bahorel walking quickly to the parking lot where his motorcycle was parked.

“What the fuck I need to wait for?!” Bahorel turned sharply. He dug his elbow into Feuilly, who took a few steps back. Bahorel was already inhaling to apologize to him, but as soon as he saw his face, he got angry again. “Feuilly, I'll say it again - we've known each other for five years. Fuck, it never occurred to you for a moment that I need or at least I  _ should  _ know that someone I confided in and who is my friend I'm dating and drinking - man, even fucking men and women, is  _ my submissive _ ?”

“You never cared,” Feuilly said, his character quite soft and quiet.

“So you're going to try to throw it at me now?” Bahorel snorted and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Incredible.”

“I'm not trying to throw anything at you, Bahorel.” Feuilly tried to speak as calmly as he could. Bahorel saw his fingers shaking. “But every time we started talking about it, you were… you were…”

“I was what?!”

“Exactly like this!” Feuilly shouted, pointing at him, frowning. “Exactly like this, so repulsive! Everyone knows how you—” He pulled out his T-shirt so that Bahorel could see his tattoo. He had the words  _ Suck me off moron _ written in rough letters on his stomach. “—hate  _ this _ ! And would like to live in a world where it doesn't matter.”

“Can you hear yourself, buddy?” Feuilly frowned more. “You're throwing it at me again. That you didn't tell me because  _ I  _ hate it. Aren't you the smarter of the two of us? So maybe you should have thought a little bit that I should probably know.”

“I'm telling you now.”

“Now. Now. Now! Before everyone, making fool of me before the world!”

“You're not playing well enough for the whole world to see, Bahorel.”

“And now insult me!”

“Don't act like a kid!” Feuilly growled aloud. It sounded like he was venting all his anger. “Enough! We’re adults! We should talk about it calmly.”

“Can we start by lying to me the whole time?”

“I didn't lie to you.”

“Dude, always—”

“I've known it as long as you did! Do you think I've known this since we met? Do you know when the tattoo showed up? After one party you took me with Bossuet and Marius to your fucking college party. I was drunk as fuck. I don't remember anyone telling me this. At all! I woke up with a red tattoo and I just lived with it. I didn't want to know who my dominant was. And then…” His shoulders dropped, scratching his red hair with his hand. “The freaking tournament happened. Sure, I could have told you that I play too, but you were so proud of yourself! And he kept talking about how great it was and that you were the best and that you didn't like us, so I—”

“Just kept it as a secret.”

“Yes,” Feuilly admitted. “Is something wrong? Did none of us ever hide anything? You don't brag about collecting CDs from Beyoncé either.”

“Who told you that?!” Bahorel shouted in fright, but immediately waved his hands in front of him. “It doesn’t matter! Such a secret doesn't matter, but this—”

“I wanted to tell you, believe me, really. Only after the tournament. No matter how we end up. Whether we win or lose. I wanted to take you here, whether I cheered for you or your for me. I really wanted us to have something in common. More than just a few beers in Musain or Corinth and our smoking stops at Jehan’s garden. Believe me.”

“How can I trust you?”

Feuilly looked down. He couldn't stand Bahorel's gaze. The aggression was gone, replaced by hurt and disgrace. “I'm your friend. Not just a friend, now I… now we both know we are something more for ourselves. We are destined for ourselves. Fate has chosen us for each other. Not everyone is so lucky. Do you want to throw it away just because it didn't go according to your plan?”

“And here we go again!” Bahorel laughed out loud. “I really had no idea that as a submissive I would have a lying redhead who would blame me for everything. What are you waiting for? That I will apologize here now and everything will be fine? Shit, you could have said something at that bar back then!”

“Can we stop this?” Feuilly asked wearily, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Come talk about it, calmly, but somewhere in private. I don't want to deal with it here.”

“Outdoors? Are you shy? That finally someone like you, who was a role model for everyone, is actually a big lying pussy.”

“Don't talk like that,” Feuilly scolded him.

“Don't try your  _ father's spells _ on me,” Bahorel said, trying to drive away the warm feeling in his chest. Feuilly knew he was a paternal role model for Bahorel. Although he knew his own father, he saw, and sometimes even messaged each other; he never really took him as a father. He made fun of him and didn't respect him. Even though he was younger, Feuilly was a perfect prototype of a man who would one day be a perfect father. Although now - how could he? He can't give him a baby. “Stop thinking about it!” Bahorel shouted, grabbing his head in his hands. He hated it when his thoughts kept reminding him how perfect the redhead was. He looked at him blankly. “Just leave me alone!”

“You think I should lea—”

“Leave me alone!” Bahorel didn't think. That would sum up what he did. He pushed into Feuilly, who fell on the asphalt with his ass and held on with his hands so that his head did not fall to the ground. He stepped on one hand with one foot and struck the other dangerously near the crotch. Feuilly whimpered in pain. “Just leave me. I don't want someone like you in my life anymore, all right?!” His voice was harsh, threatening, and Feuilly felt goosebumps crawl all over his body.

Bahorel then turned, walked quickly to his motorcycle, put on his helmet. Feuilly was still sitting in the same place as he drove off the parking lot.

It had been two weeks since Bahorel had learned who his submissive was; two weeks after deciding not to speak to Feuilly; two weeks after he locked himself in at home and didn't want to see anyone. But it was also two weeks when he experienced strong feelings of pain and loneliness. Grantaire was the only one who could approach him. He always brought him food and left without a word. He didn't ask him anything, he didn't tell him anything, and Bahorel was glad for it.

After two weeks, he was finally able to go to the bathroom, take a shower and shave. He changed the sheets on the bed and pulled out the blinds. After two weeks, he saw sunlight. He couldn't believe he could live in silence, darkness, and just his thoughts for two weeks.

He walked into the living room, where Grantaire was sitting on the couch, with potato chips in one hand and beer in the other, watching the anime. When he saw him, he greeted him and returned his eyes to the television. But Bahorel saw him straighten up and keep his eyes on his figure. He had as many questions as he did. He sat down next to him, picked up the pillow he placed on his stomach, and began to eat from Grantaire's bowl.

As the rhythm of the ending came from the television, Bahorel asked quietly, “Why does it hurt so much?”

Grantaire looked at him and leaned his head against the back of the couch. “Because it's so set.”

“Pretty fucked up.”

Grantaire laughed at his appreciation. “Yeah.”

“It sucks."

“Yeah.”

“It itches terribly.”

“So be careful not to scratch it.”

“Did I expect any allusion to a sexually transmitted disease and you said nothing?” Bahorel raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire said truthfully. “But you know I'm pretty careful about tattoos.”

“It doesn't suit you at all. Don't you have a fever?”

Bahorel was already inclined to place a palm on Grantaire's forehead, but he just laughed and put his elbows on his knees so they couldn't see his face. Bahorel knew his laughter was faked. He pulled his hand back to his body. “Do you remember how I sit at home in convulsions for a week, still complaining of back pain?”

“Yes?”

“Well, that moron—”  _ Grantaire's dominant _ . “—decided to go and rescue a boy from a bunch of drunken beasts, and let them beat you up so that one of his shoes has scraped off the tattoo he had. I thought I would die when I felt it.”

“It's Enjolras, you'll have to get used to things like that.”

“I'm used to it,” Grantaire said with a smile and looked at Bahorel. “And you? Are you used to it?”

“Not at all,” he said truthfully, crossing his arms over his chest and inflating his cheeks a little. “It's terrible.”

“What do you feel?”

“It's like being in the sun for two weeks and getting totally burned. My whole body is itching, I feel as if something is still crawling on me. Yeah, and I couldn't get up last time either. I couldn't even breathe.”

“And how do you think Feuilly feels?” Bahorel winced. “You didn't think of that, did you?”

Bahorel pursed his lips and looked around the corner of the table. All this time he focused only on himself. Was it wrong? What he felt couldn't make him think of anything else. Just how uncomfortable it is. “Feuilly's not well.” Bahorel looked back at Grantaire, who was looking at him with the most serious look he could. He had only seen him on it a few times. Mostly when he reassured Joly during his panic attacks. “He's only been to the meeting once since, but he got really sick in an hour, so Jehan went to accompany him home. In the evening he had a fever and vomited. Maybe the beer they drank with Jehan was to blame, but based on how little they drank and we both know what Feuilly can handle, I thought it was something else. And we both probably know very well what.” Bahorel vaguely remembered that the first three days were the worst. His stomach was weak, he still wanted to run somewhere, but at the same time he just wanted to lie down on his bed, he had a strong headache and he couldn't sleep properly. “Do you know what it must be like for him when you reject him?”

“It's his fault.”

“Jesus, Bahorel,” Grantaire said, running his hand through his black hair. “Don't act like a kid.”

“Don't say that,” Bahorel said in a low voice. “Please don't say that.”

Grantaire stared at him silently for a moment. “He told you that when you had an argument, didn't he?”

“Don't say that,” he repeated.

“Okay, then let me speak for a moment.” Grantaire rested his palms on his knees, straightened, and took a deep breath. “Have I told you Annie's story yet? Oh, beautiful, gorgeous Annie, who didn't believe in soulmate tattoos and how did she end up? She fell in love with her dominant, but he was the same as her. He refused such a connection, so he slept behind her back with three other women, and it broke her heart. Every time they weren't together and one of the women kissed his tattoo, it burned her. He left her after begging him on her knees to be his only one. How did it turn out? She is alone, distressed and the tattoo is getting uglier day by day. He returned to her a few times to keep his tattoos from hurting, always for a while. Call it what you will, but I think this is karma.” Bahorel just shrugged, so Grantaire continued, “Or do you want to end up like Serge? He didn't believe it either. He kept saying what nonsense it was, and when the tattoo finally showed him, what was his reaction?  _ Dude, I hope whoever is my submissive soon die so I don't have to have it on that fucking skin _ . Hmm, you should never tell things you didn’t want to happen right? Boom. Two months later, his good friend Louis committed suicide and Serge’s wish came true.”

“Tattoos don't go away.”

“But owners do,” Grantaire said seriously, sitting across from Bahorel. “The fact that the tattoo then stays on you and rots together with the body of your dear other half is another matter.”

“That's disgusting.”

“And true.”

“What with these stories? You made them up anyway.”

“Annie is a good friend of mine who goes to salsa lectures once a week. You've asked her out a few times already.”

“The tall brunette?” Grantaire nodded. “She didn't look depressed.”

“Not for you. You don't know her fake smiles. But it breaks my heart to see her suffer and blames herself for respecting the laws of our world.”

“What about Serge? Also a good friend I heard about for the first time in my life?”

“Serge is no longer here.”

Bahorel winced. “What?”

“He ended up like Louis. Do you think that man can live without half his soul?” Instead of answering, he shook his head. “That's why when you find it, you should respect it and pamper it. Share more than just words, emotions, and physical contact with someone. But your whole world.”

Bahorel was silent for a moment. Then he just said, “You sound like a protagonist from a fucking romantic book.”

“You know I'm a romantic,” Grantaire said with a smile. “But if this isn't good enough for you, then what about your story, I dare say, a very good friend? Who enjoyed his life and never cared about his tattoo? Because he never believed he could meet someone who loved him and wanted to call him his  _ soulmate _ ? Yeah, this guy sitting in front of you is also a victim of our world. Because when the world introduced me to  _ my angel _ , I realized that the back pain was not just that. I knew who he was. And from then on, I waited for the only moment when I would finally be able to say -  _ Yes, Enjolras, it's me, let's adopt three children and buy a dog! _ —But when it happened—” He smiled sadly, and something flashed in his eyes that Bahorel didn't recognize. “—when we played that damn  _ Troja  _ play in our school drama club, I played the role of Patroclus, and when I said to the guy who played Achilles -  _ Yes, that's him! Our savior! The only one who can stop this cruel war and bring us victory. Achilles, our Aristos Achaion. _ When we finished, Enjolras was no longer there, Combeferre said he felt sick during the performance and had to go home. The next day, at the meeting, he appeared directly with these words on his body, directly inscribed in his chest. And his reaction?”

_ “It's just words, they don't make us anyone else, so I refuse to be the one to follow them,”  _ Bahorel recited. He remembered this sentence all too well. Enjolras once spoke so emphatically at a meeting that Jehan used it in several of his poems. “Cruel.”

“But hey, that's who he is,” Grantaire said, rising from the couch. He leaned against the wall that divided the kitchen and living room. He turned his back on Bahorel, and yet he asked, “How do you feel now?”

“That fucking tattoo. It burns and stings.”

“And what do you think Feuilly feels?”

Bahorel sighed. “Maybe… maybe…. Maybe the same thing?”

“Bahorel,” Grantaire said seriously, tilting his head so he could look at his friend. “He must feel the same.”

“How can you be so sure?” He asked quietly.

“What do you think I feel? Now and here?” Bahorel finally looked at him, and when their eyes met, Grantaire turned again so he wouldn't have to look at him. “I’m in pain. The insurmountable pain that afflicts me every time we are long apart. I need to know that he's here for me, so I go to those meetings, even if I don't care about it. Even though I know that my attention and presence are not worth it. Because I know it's hard for him too. We're not talking about it, but we need each other. We see each other, sometimes we exchange a few words together, just so that the tattoos don't burn and hurt. He knows he's my  _ soulmate _ , we both know that, but look at us. We can't live with it. We can't deal with it. Why? Because he’s an idealist and I’m an anarchist. Our worlds cannot be connected by even the greatest connection. And also because our tattoos will  _ never  _ be complete.” With that, Grantaire lifted the hem of his T-shirt and revealed his back to Bahorel. On them was a neat, red lettering  _ I love you _ . “Do you think I'll ever hear that?” He didn't want to know the answer, and Bahorel didn't want to promise him anything, so he kept quiet. “It simply came to our notice then. And so we fight with it like two idiots. But you and Feuilly are different - you are friends. And honestly… has he always been  _ just a friend _ to you?”

“What are you trying to tell me here, Grantaire?” He asked with a clear warning in his voice.

Grantaire finally smiled sincerely. “I don't think two friends talk about each other like you two. Or treat each other like that. Maybe, even though you're trying to convince yourself that this has never done anything to you, in fact, you somehow knew that Feuilly would be someone much more for you. Yeah, and we also have pretty thin walls, so I'm sure in those five years, his name escaped your mouth too often at night. Am I not right?”

“I guess I should get something out of your room for Enjolras, too.”

“The frigid would be pleased.” Grantaire's voice darkened again, adding to his seriousness. “Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you here? Feuilly is a good man. Not good, but  _ great _ . We both know that. We all know that. Don't let him suffer. Someone like him doesn't deserve it.” He went to his room and let Bahorel think for himself. But he just focused on the pungent feeling around the tattoo.

“Fuck,” he said into the silence of the room and began stroking his tattoo. It didn't hurt so much under his touch.

“Feuilly, go home.” Feuilly looked up from his work and looked ahead, at his boss, in his new red suit. His hands rested on his hips and he was smiling at him, but there was a look of concern in his eyes. “You're my best worker, I can't lose you because you're overworking.”

“I still have to finish—”

“You don't have to. You have long broken your personal record. Some of your colleagues are starting to worry about not raising work quotas for them because of you,” he laughed and walked closer to his desk, there was an unbelievable mess on him. It bothered him. Feuilly was always careful and clean. But for the last few days he had been sitting at his desk, not noticing anything and scattering the remnants of chips and cloth around him. Nothing was ever wasted from his desk, and suddenly... “Go home,” he repeated. “Get a good night's sleep and I want to see you here in full force on Monday.”

“Sir, I can't take a vacation,” he said urgently.

“Vacation?” The boss asked, his eyebrow raised.

“Yes, can I stay home when it's Wednesday—”

“It's Friday night, Feuilly. Working hours ended two hours ago.” Feuilly winced. He looked at the large clock on the wall, which announced that it was eight o'clock in the evening. No one was sitting around him, the hall was empty. How could he have missed it? “Go home.” With that, his boss turned his back and went to his study, which was upstairs so that he could see all his workers. Feuilly could still feel his gaze. He put down his work and finally left the hall.

He thought as he went to the locker room so he could take his things out of the closet and return the work-apron. How is it possible that he didn't see it that way? He always focused on working as best he could, but it never occurred to him to turn it off — as Courfeyrac called it when he described Combeferre's concentration on learning. When was the last time he talked to someone? He didn't remember. When was the last time he went to a bar with friends? He didn't know. When was the last time he actually saw someone other than his reflection in the mirror? He had no idea. When was the last time he saw Bahorel? Two weeks, six hours, thirty minutes, and twenty-two seconds ago.

Feuilly sighed. He slammed the cabinet door and slung his bag over his shoulder. He stopped as he passed his reflection in the hallway mirror. How would anyone want to talk to him when he looked - like this? His hair was tangled, his eyes sunken, bags beneath them, his mouth thin like a slit. Thanks to his completely pale skin, his otherwise sunken freckles were visible. And was it a ketchup stain that adorned the sleeve of his favorite shirt? He growled as he lifted the hem of his shirt over himself. And the thing he smelled was  _ himself _ ?

Feuilly hurried to the bathroom, took off his shirt, tucked it in his backpack, pulled deodorant, and sprayed it from head to toe. What was he doing? Wasn't he old enough to overcome one rejection? After all, he had broken up so many in his life. He sighed as he put his backpack over his shoulder again. But this was no mere rejection. This was…  _ Bahorel _ . And that changed everything. He was his friend. His dominant. His soul mate. And he turned him down.

Feuilly said goodbye to the security guard and walked out in front of the building. He pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his trouser pocket, and before he could light it, when voice next to him said, “Finally!” Feuilly's cigarette fell out of his hand, and he looked to his left, where Bahorel stood, his hands tucked in a leather jacket, a piece of straw in his mouth, and his face was  _ too serious _ for his circumstances. “What were you doing there? Sucking your boss dick?”

“B-b-Baho—”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that, I know you wouldn't sleep with your boss for promotion. That's Courfeyrac's specialty.”

“W-what ple-a—”

“You're going home, aren't you? Or do you have a meeting with colleagues?”

Feuilly finally woke up from shock and just shook his head. “N-no. I'm going home.”

“Okay, let's go.” Not waiting for his reaction, he turned on his heel and walked toward Feuilly's apartment. He had been there so many times that he remembered the journey from any point in Paris. Feuilly stood still for a moment before blinking confusedly and running after his friend. He kept trying to deny that he was smiling.

They walked side by side in silence. Bahorel kept chewing the end of the straw stalk in his mouth, Feuilly staring at the ground, his fingers clenched tightly on his backpack. Neither knew how to get started. Apologize? Don't talk about it? Say it? Go get drunk and then maybe come up with something?

The journey was shorter than they both remembered. As they reached the entrance to Feuilly's apartment, they both sighed in disappointment. Feuilly walked to the door, pulled his keys from the front pocket of his backpack. He looked at Bahorel, and when he noticed that the younger man was looking at him without blinking, he said, “Thanks for stopping by?”

“You feel it too, don't you?”

“What?” He asked, confused.

“The relief.” Feuilly's eyes widened. “So yes.”

“It's weird, isn't it?” Feuilly laughed, scratching his hair.

“Less than you look like you've been run over by a train. Dude, what happened to you?”

Feuilly thought about it. Should he tell him how he woke up every morning, vomited, and kept thinking about what Bahorel was doing? Should he have told him about how he had to put bags of ice on his tattoo to stop the pain, at least for a while? Should he have told him about how he cried every night and couldn't talk to anyone because he wasn't even able to put together a meaningful sentence?

No. He couldn't tell him that. “I've had a lot of overtime, I need more money now.”

“Bullshit,” Bahorel snorted. “It's clear to me it's because of me.”

“Bahorel—”

“— _ Don't you think you mean so much to me _ , you wanted to say, right?” Feuilly smiled and nodded. “Okay, I won't believe it that way, but then explain to me why you haven't shown up in Musain for two weeks?”

“How would you know if you don't go there too?” This time it was Bahorel who didn't know what to say. “You're not the only one who has friends, you know that? We even have them the  _ same _ , so once one found out - and we won't name Grantaire - what happened, everyone knew. You may have a Grantaire at home, but I have someone named Enjolras, and he can be much, but much more interested in making me feel good.”

“Because he’s in love with you.”

“He  _ was _ , and we all agreed, that we would never talk about it again. For Grantaire's good.”

“I know,” Bahorel said, a little irritated. “Then why did you go to work so much? You know, as exhausted as you were,…” He didn't finish. But it was clear to Feuilly. He had to feel it. To be tired. The tattoo must have burned him from how much he was sweating. “It was annoying.”

“I'm sorry about that, but…” Feuilly took a deep breath. He didn't enjoy this game anymore. They were adults, weren't they? He was the one who said it in the parking lot, and he would be the one to act as an adult. Bahorel was still too immature for that, and he needed someone to push him. “It hurts, okay? It hurt not to be with you. And it still hurts. Because… because I couldn't think of anything but you, I needed… I needed to do something. But it didn't work. You were still somewhere, something still reminded me of you. The only time I didn’t think about it was at work. Because it was the only place that didn't remind me of you.”

“Wait, are you telling me I'm lazy?”

Feuilly finally laughed heartily. “Just a little bit.”

Bahorel frowned and walked over to Feuilly. He pressed him against the glass door of the apartment complex, clasped his hands next to his head, and raised an eyebrow. “Then _ lazy  _ you said, hm?”

“I didn't say that and you're standing too close.”

“I don’t think so. You know why?”

“W-why?”

“Because that fucking tattoo doesn't hurt for the first time in weeks, but it's beautifully warm.” He leaned over and kissed Feuilly.

Was it right? Should they have done it? Were those the emotions they submitted to? A friendship that forced them to help themselves on every occasion? Or something more primitive than the instincts that made them have to be together?

They didn't know. And they didn't care. All they knew was that the tattoo — Bahorel on his side and Feuilly's on his stomach — finally didn't burn, it didn't hurt, _ it didn't hurt _ . They didn't know about it. And after two weeks of tiring pain and discomfort, it was a wonderful feeling. He intensified as Feuilly opened his mouth and deepened their kiss. Bahorel pressed against his body and pressed it all against the door. Feuilly couldn't breathe, his entire chest and lungs stung, but he didn't care. He wanted to feel Bahorel closer, closer,  _ even closer _ , to finally relieve the uncomfortable pressure he felt all over. He dug his fingers into his thigh, pressed himself to his face, and rubbed his crotch against his. He whistled in surprise when he found Bahorel excited. He wanted to say something, to ask something, maybe to stop them; but Bahorel wouldn't let him. He grabbed his hands, intertwined his fingers with him, and pressed them against the glass. He rubbed his hips against his and grunted softly.

When they both finally needed to breathe, Bahorel pulled away from him and moved his lips to his neck. He didn't kiss him, but  _ bit him _ , he wanted to imprint himself on his skin and show everyone in the world -  _ yes, this is my soulmate and he belongs to me! _ \- Feuilly closed his eyes in excitement, no longer thinking about anything - the pain, the fact that they shouldn't, the fact that the sun hadn't set yet and anyone could walk down the street or go out of the complex and see them. He didn't care. The only thing that mattered now was Bahorel - his name, his warmth, his body,  _ his soul. _

“B-Bahorel,” Feuilly whispered softly. Excitement? Warning? Both? Probably. He tried to break free of his grip, but Bahorel just kissed him again. He pressed harder against his crotch and began to rub against him with force. Feuilly moaned into their kiss, moaning and begging to  _ stop and let him go _ ; and on the other hand,  _ never to give up, and to come to the desired moment of relief. _

It arrived a few seconds later, when Bahorel bitted his lip and licked drops of blood with his tongue. Feuilly groaned with a high alto, and with slow, long strokes he rubbed against Bahorel's leg several more times. When he finally caught his breath, swallowed all the saliva and blood, opened his eyes, and looked at Bahorel, who was looking at him with a dark, excited look. But most importantly, he was smiling. And so Feuilly returned his smile.

“I had to,” Bahorel said. It was a way of apologizing to him. Feuilly understood it.

“It’s okay, it was…” He didn't finish. They both knew what he was trying to say.

“I can go-”

“You have to come to me,” Feuilly said, gripping his face with his hands. “We can talk about everything there. Finally, talk.” He leaned over his lips and added before kissing him, “But first I have to take care of my  _ dominant _ .”

Bahorel, instead of answering, smiled into their another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [2WNikiAngel](http://www.2wnikiangel.tumblr.com) a newly on Wattpad [Niki Angel](https://www.wattpad.com/user/2W_NikiAngel)


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